


Red, Silver, Brown

by Blue_Sunshine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Captivity, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, One Shot, Stiles is a hunter in training, Touch-Starved, Violence, Wolf Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 08:14:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17321273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine
Summary: “That’s not going to work.” Chris huffs beneath his breath, and Peter knows that, that they will chain him again, and lock him away, alone and less than a person, until he might amuse them again, and there will come a day when he will tear them all apart for that. Even Chris, who remembers at least that his enemies were people. Even Stiles, whom he finds so intriguing.





	Red, Silver, Brown

**Author's Note:**

> So this was less an attempt at a story so much as an attempt at a writing style, and I think i lost the thread of the style somewhere in the middle, but i hope at least that readers still enjoy it!

Cold is a dust in the air the first time Peter lays eyes on the boy; and a boy he is – eyes round of the innocence of it, of youth, face yet soft and fair, arms and legs yet still limber for growing. Peter does not then mark the boy, for he has seen many youths come and go. Some no longer youths, trained and less of innocence, and some youths forever, to be abandoned unmarked, left forgotten.

He watches him as he has watched many others, shivering with cold and warmed by an anger that cannot be spent, being taught to fall, being taught to get back up.  It is always the first lesson. The wolves are caged on a crest in the grounds, forming a wall of barred steel and gleaming eyes and wicked teeth, kept chained and apart from each other and always visible – for the wolves are the enemy. But as the hunters they train can always see them, so too can the wolves.

It becomes a game for the young and the eager and the foolish, to get as close as they can to snapping teeth and wicked claws. Daring each other another yard, another step, another inch. Wolves not long caught will throw themselves at the bars and gnash and be strangled against their tethers. Those wiser will play docile, and wait, and lunge when vulnerable flesh is in reach, but Peter plays neither game, and this is wiser still.

“Tamed to the whip, that one.” Those that teach the young will say. “Just don’t poke him with a stick.”

The young are young, however, and still try, and scare themselves with it, for Peter is the largest of the wolves, and the strongest, and his eyes are a bleeding shade of red that spawn nightmares and validate every terrible tale that the hunters tell of monsters.

But this boy, with the brown eyes that burn like a lamp, he doesn’t play those games with the others. In this way he is much like Peter, waiting, watching.

When he walks along the line of cages with the others, he stands away, and when they sneer and taunt at the animals, he is quiet, and when he looks at Peter, he knows better.

They are not animals.

This is why Peter marks him. Why he no longer merely watches and instead follows that boy, studying what he does and does not do, and how well he learns, as the dust of cold turns into the dust of snow, into the wet of spring, and the scalding heat of summer which sends Peter slinking into every patch of shade, what terribly little of it he can reach.

The boy turns into less of a boy. That is what the hunters do, to these malleable youths. He turns lean and then strong, limbs thickening with the weight of denser flesh, face sharpened at the edges with the loss of childhood softness, and hands hardened to the touch. His hair gets shorn, and then grows long, shadowing his eyes and thickening into scruff along is jaw. He masters the first lesson, and the fifth, and the fortieth, even his scent evolving, ingrained now with gunpowder and chalk and the scent of the lake they swim in.

Only his eyes do not change, and Peter realizes that in this one, the innocence was only an illusion. He did not come here with it, only with youth, and so there is none to take away before he leaves, and one day he will leave, as they all do. He will become Hunter, and he will find more people like Peter, the people they do not believe are people at all, and he will hurt them. It is what they train them to do.

The hunters know this boy is different too. That he is special, and when it comes time that he must learn to face a real wolf, as he would in the hunt, it is Peter they pit him against.

They do not often think to let Peter out to train the young to fight. Peter is dangerous, and they know this, as tame as they claim him to be. They do not want him used to the taste of their blood in his mouth.

But they expect something of this boy, more than they look for in the others, and so they put him in their arena with Peter.

Far more unkind than being left utterly alone, Peter thinks, is that the only contact he is ever allowed with another living person is to be of pain and violence. There are few wolves in the cages who have been captive longer than Peter, and half of them are mad of the isolation, breaking more from want of kindness than excess of cruelty.

Peter decides he will not fight, standing in the sand with the boy-becoming-man. The sand stings against his paws, and itches in his fur, from being gracelessly thrown, and Peter stalks a bit, the edge of the circle. There is shade in the arena, if one give it the grandness of that title, and Peter is unashamed to slink to it and settle himself on him haunches. He watches the boy, and the boy watches him, and the hunters watch them both.

“He’s not going to fight.” One man declares, the one who breathes smoke through the bars from a bitter cigarette when he walks the line to check the cages.

“He will if you hit him.” Another calls out, one who barely dares near the cages at all. Peter pulls back his lips in a bare snarl, in a wolf’s grin, and then yawns, shaking out his fur. He watches the boy, and the boy watches him.

The boy takes a cautious step towards him in the sand, and Peter makes no move to let the boy think he won’t allow it. This is not the game the youths play. There is nothing here to stop Peter, save the boy himself. He takes another sliding, cautious step, and barely blinks. Peter waits. The boy is armed, with sharp steel notched with silver. He even smells of wolfsbane, though Peter doubts he carries any upon his person. They don’t want to kill these wolves, after all. Not when they are so difficult to catch and keep.

“Kid’s gonna get gutted.” Someone mutters.

“Kid knows what he’s doing, shut up.” Another retorts. “I trained him.” Peter cocks his head slightly, ear twitching towards that voice. Peter knows that one. That’s the one who caught him. The other one who knows better than to treat them like animals. He brings them meat, sometimes, properly cooked and scraped off the bone, occasionally mixed with vegetables and spices that almost lets Peter remember what it felt like to be a person.

He doesn’t know if he hates that one – _Chris_ – more or less because of it.

The boy doesn’t draw his knife, when he gets within a lunge of Peter, his hands trembling but his heartbeat steady, while outside the pit of the arena, heartbeats are drumming and drumming like thunder.

The boy holds out a hand towards him, and someone curses quietly. It might even have been Chris. They are all nervous and antsy, reeking of it. Peter doesn’t play by their rules, and now they think they’ve made a mistake, and that this boy they expect so much of will pay the price of it.

Peter stands and shakes himself, and saunters towards the wall, away from the boy, whom has gone still. He lifts his leg and urinates and then trots back towards him, amused at the sheer disgust of the hunters left in his wake. Even the boy looks disgruntled at the act, at least until he realizes that Peter is not going back into the shade, but is loping right up to his feet.

He halts, a man’s step away, and carefully scents the boy. His person-scent is metallic and cloyingly sweet, like copper and flowers and syrup and yet none of those things, and over it he smells like gunpowder and chalk and lake, and over that Peter can taste his nerves and his fear, but the boy is not overwhelmed by either, and Peter thinks perhaps it is safe enough. He takes another step forward, eyeing the boy who is eyeing him back with wary suspicion. Peter lets his jaw hinge and grins wolfishly before slowly lifting his muzzle to the boy hand, pressing a damp nose into the calloused palm. The boy stops breathing.

Peter waits, and cautiously, the boy breathes again, and moves, dragging his fingers up Peter’s skull, between his ears and over the back of his neck, and stopping there, a light weight in his ruff. It’s the gentlest touch Peter’s felt in years, and he stands very still in the hopes that it might last.

It doesn’t.

“Stiles.” Chris calls for the boy, who seems as frozen as Peter is. “Don’t bother to subdue. Just back away from him. He’s not gonna give us a fight.”

“Give him a kick and he will!” Another hunter hollers, and Peter can scent Chris’ irritation on the breeze a moment later.

“You are welcome, Dupree, to get in the ring and kick the alpha.” Chris calls back, and the other hunter does not respond. “ _Stiles_.” Chris calls again, and the boy steps away from him. Peter growls, and Chris halts in his tracks, where he’d been entering the arena.

“Don’t get me mauled, Chris.” Stiles says, tenser now than he had been since he stepped into the arena.

“Don’t get mauled, Stiles.” Chris says gruffly in return. He has a muzzle cage in his hand, and the steel, spiked harness they use to keep the wolves docile and controlled. Peter takes an instinctive step back and curls his lip, baring a fang with a low, warning rumble.

“Looks like we get a fight after all.” One of the bystanders hoots, and Peter stops snarling, lifts his head, and seeks out the speaker with his gaze. The man pales, and Peter stalks past Stiles and towards Chris, because he will not show them fear. He halts in front of the older man and stares him down. Chris lifts the harness and Peter lifts a lip.

“That’s not going to work.” Chris huffs beneath his breath, and Peter knows that, that they will chain him again, and lock him away, alone and less than a person, until he might amuse them again, and there will come a day when he will tear them all apart for that. Even Chris, who remembers at least that his enemies were people. Even Stiles, whom he finds so intriguing.

He doesn’t bite the hunter because he doesn’t want to get stabbed again, but he does lay down on his side and make it as annoyingly difficult as possible to get him harnessed and muzzled without getting hurt for his efforts, and once done, he shoves Chris by the knee with his head, making the man stumble, the entire way back to his cage.

The youths who fought a wolf that day spend the evening nursing their wounds and being told what they could have done better. The youths who did not fight take Peter’s passivity for docility, and find that he has teeth after all when he savages them for their false bravado.

They are taken, screaming and crying, back into the compound by their betters, and Peter howls when they go because he cannot laugh.

~*~

Peter expects Stiles, the boy becoming a man, to visit him, curiosity peaked by such a small act of incongruity. Of the wolf that did not hurt him, though they both know he full well could have.

But it is not Stiles and his burning brown eyes that seek him out in the coming days. He can hear him coming, boots crushing grass and the wolves closer to the house growing restless, growling threateningly and cowering with a whine, depending on their experience and their disposition, but it is Chris who comes.

Chris the hunter, whose golden hair is now shot with silver as it was not when they first crossed paths, and whose eyes are like ice, pale and shining, like the scars Peter gave him.

Chris the hunter, the only person Peter knows is alive who knows what Peter’s face looks like, whom has seen him in the skin that isn’t this one. Peter hadn’t known at the time what he was, when he had found him drowning. Had he, he would not have saved his life, and Chris could not have cursed him by returning the favor, by capturing him, no matter how difficult nor dangerous, instead of killing him.

It was the last act of kindness Peter ever offered another person.

He settles himself on his haunches in the grass, just out of reach of a lunge from the bars and the tether, and studies the red-eyed wolf as if he expects to find something he has not yet found, in these many years.

He opens his mouth and sucks in air a few times, a gesture on a wolf which meant scenting and a gesture which on human beings was just an awkwardness of their inability to finds the words they wished to speak.

“Stiles is….mine.” Chris says, eventually, haltingly and so quiet that Peter can taste his fear of being found. Of being heard. “I don’t train that many, and he’ll be the last before Allis- before my daughter joins us. She’s of age now, and she’ll be here come winter. It’s her birthright.” Chris pauses as he speaks, frequently and with deliberation. Peter waits.

They don’t train their young together, the boys and the girls. They don’t want them distracted by the infatuation and the self-indulgence of undisciplined youth. It creates problems and conflicts less easily settled than a scramble for dominance of the pack. They train the girls harder, more brutally than they train the boys. Men, they say, are born to fight. Women are not. Women are born to survive. They are far more compassionate, and far more cruel, and it is a different challenge to hone those instincts within them. So the hunters say.

Peter himself learned much from having been taught his lessons in life side by side with his sisters, viciousness and patience among them. Gentility and kindness too, but he’s lost those since then.

Then again, Peter and his sisters were never in danger of romance.

“He’s not like the others.” Chris sighs. “He’s more intuitive, more careful. His anger is _cold_.” He rubs his hands together in the darkness, a stressful motion. “He’s a killers killer.” Chris voice drops so low, even the wolf struggles to hear him. “And Allison loves him.”

Peter shifts, deciding he is going to sit up and pay attention while Chris spills out the emotions he wasn’t ever properly taught to handle. Peter stretches and inches himself closer to the bars. Chris tenses, watching him, and releases the tension once more when Peter settles, ears pricked and his muzzle resting over his paws, his eyes boring up at the man.

Chris’ hands stop moving, and his fingers clench. “I wish you’d fought him.” He says, and then scoffs in self-loathing. “But you did, didn’t you? You fought him and you won. I can see the doubt in his eyes.”

Peter deliberately pulls back his lips, flashing what looks like a grin in the darkness and lifting his head. Chris stops talking, stops moving. He is very still, for a moment in the moonlight, and Peter stares back at him.

Chris rises abruptly and stalks away, agitated, and Peter rises also, tail swishing lightly and a real grin curling through his chest, because Peter could see it too. The doubt in _Christopher’s_ eyes.

He waits.

~*~

A killers killer.

That anger Chris spoke of Peter knows. It is in all the youth they train. It is what brings them here, because anger encourages violence, and violence is the hunt. But in most of those youths it is a hot, tempestuous rage, stoked by pain or fear or pride or all of those things, thriving when it is fed and turning against itself when it is not.

A cold anger is different. It is deeper and darker, directed and patient. Like grief and hatred, it never leaves, and indeed grief and hatred are often where cold anger is born. It does not flare or fade and it does not need to be fed to endure. Only answered for.

And the boy, _Stiles_ , no longer trusts the answer the hunters have given him.

The others hunted because it satisfied them, it gave them power and pleasure and the violence they craved. It allowed them to prove themselves.

Stiles, Peter thinks, the more he watches the boy watching everyone else, does not seek proof. Does not need it. He knows who he is. If the boy were Peter, Peter would say he seeks vengeance, but the boy is not Peter. The boy, despite his doubt, which is not weakness but wariness, is still kind, where Peter would not be. He’ll share his meal with his fellows, the ones they partner him with, and help them patch themselves of their injuries and cover for them where they are weak. So perhaps he seeks something less selfish than vengeance. Perhaps he seeks justice.

And he is beginning to discover that the hunters cannot give it to him, because the hunters themselves are not just, and they do not recognize how dangerous that is for them now. Because Peter agrees with Chris. He thinks Stiles _is_ a killer’s killer. He is not joyous in his violence, but he is _better_ at it than the rest. Very much like a wolf, when it comes to the fight, and the kill, he does not flinch nor hesitate. Whether it is training or instinct, he is not afraid to hurt them to prevent them from hurting him, or someone who is pack to him. They encourage his dangerousness, and he is not afraid to hurt them.

Peter wonders if they’ll kill the boy, when they figure it out. They have killed others for defiance before. He wonders if they’ll figure it out before he turns on them. And he will turn, Peter knows.

And so does Chris. Peter watches it dawn on the older hunters face when a wolf is killed. They drag her from her cage for a demonstration, as they are often wont to do, but they do not know that this time she will not cower. They have broken her to obedience, but she was brittle to begin with and now she is dying, and any creature that was born free knows, desperately, that it should die free.

So she hurt them and she ran and did as only the desperate will do, and showed them her second skin, and they shot her in the back before she ever reached the wall. She whimpers in her dying, afraid and in pain and Peter sings for her, because he is alpha and it is all he can do. The other wolves do not sing for her. They are not pack, any of them, these broken, breaking people, bound only by their species and their hatred of the hunters who keep them here. It is not a kindness, his voice cannot help her. It is defiance, and the only comradery he can give, so that she does not die unacknowledged.

Peter sings, howling against the sky and the cages, and the boy becomes a man who knows that this is not who he is, and Christopher turns away in shame of himself for what he now knows.

Because once, even hating him, Peter had known that this would not have been who Chris was either.

~*~

Summer is dying. Peter can taste the withering in the air, can feel sleep creep through the soil, lulling the trees and the rivers and the animals even before the touch of frost first comes.

Summer is ending, and Peter thinks it will end in bloodshed, and he waits for it.

It does not come. Stiles delineation from the rest is clearer day by day, but they are too proud of him to be afraid. It is Chris who pulls away from his pack, who moves from its center to its edges and watches those who step in his place with disappointment and shame. It is Chris whose scent grows tainted with acrid fear and bitterness. He turns biting, harsher on his apprentices and unimpressed with his companions, with their lack of respect, of honor, of the discipline he himself upholds. It is he who makes them turn uneasy, but they forgive him the unease. His daughter is to be initiated soon, and it is, they claim, only natural that he might be edgy for it.

They recognize his temper and act mindful of it, never thinking of Stiles behind him, who will warn them far less when he turns the violence they have shown him back upon the hunters themselves.

Peter waits, but Chris will not.

Dawn is more a silver suggestion than a warm reality when he hears them, their boots shuffing the dew from the grass. He is tucked nose under tail and considers remaining ignorant of them, but the shape an arrow towards his cell, and he cannot. So he rises a stretches, no longer young as he was when he came into this cage, and listens to Chris’s heavy heartbeat, and Stiles’ measured breaths.

They stop in front of his cage, and he watches, while Chris looks back like a man cornered, for all that he is free and Peter is not.

Anticipation is electric, when Peter recognizes the keys in the hunters hands, and the scent of silver and wolfsbane.

“You’re letting him go?” Stiles asks, sounding surprised.

“Let him go?” Chris barks back shortly, hands clenching and unclenching. “I do that and he’ll kill you and me and anyone else he can reach before they put him down.”

“He didn’t seem that feral.” Stiles remarks, a step behind Chris’s shoulder.

“He isn’t.” Chris replies, still staring at Peter’s red eyes. “He’ll do it because it is the only thing he has wanted to do since I brought him here. That isn’t the animal in him, Stiles, and it’s not a monster either. He’ll kill us for the exact same reasons that you would.”

Stiles doesn’t deny the accusation, and Chris huffs a quiet, despairing laugh for the eloquence of his silence.

“I wouldn’t kill you.” Stiles offers, shifting on his feet.

“Because you believe I’m better than the rest?” Chris retorts, self-loathing tight in his tone.

“Aren’t you?” Stiles asks softly, a little bit of the boy left in him still.

“I don’t know, Stiles.” Chris admits, and Peter wants to roll his eyes for the drama and the ticklish reek of anxiety. “He saved my life once. I was drowning and he pulled me from the river. So I did this to him, instead of killing him.”

“Does he have a name?” Stiles inquires, lifting a hand to Chris’s shoulder, burning brown eyes not soft, but lit with calm understanding.

“I’ve seen his face, but I never thought to ask for his name.” Chris says, snorting softly at his own…Peter doesn’t quite know, actually. The man is breaking, all of his own making, looking into a reflection of himself and realizing he does not recognize what he sees in the cracks of the mirror.

They are quiet for a minute.

“What are you going to do?” Stiles finally asks, letting his hand fall away, and Peter wants to know that too. There are options. He could kill Peter. He could open the cage and throw the boy in and let Peter kill him before the boy killed any of the hunters. He could open the cage and let Peter kill them both, and anyone else he could reach.

“Nothing.” Chris replies. “You are. You are going to take him, and you are going to leave. Pick up Allison and disappear. This isn’t the life for you. Either of you. Any of you.” He shakes his head, clenching his eyes shut and then opening them back up on Peter.

“Freedom,” He offers, stark and grim. “or blood.”

Peter bares his teeth in a silent snarl. Peter _wants_ blood. Peter has waited years for it, and it isn’t fair to offer him an ultimatum now, when he has forgotten what freedom feels like. When he has accepted death in a cage.

“If I get him out, that won’t stop him from killing me.” Stiles states empathetically.

“ _You_ can stop him from killing you.” Chris says shortly. “You would have been the best of us.”

“I’m not that kind of killer.” Stiles says, speaking of the sport of it that hunters made.

“I know.” Chris sighs. “That’s _why_ you’re better than us.”

“Chris…” Stiles says softly, finally recognizing the goodbye inherent in all of it.

“Allison would never have been what we tried to make of her. She’s like you. She’s too strong. And if she refused to bend they would break her, and is she wouldn’t break…no legacy could save her. Not even mine.” Chris says, with a tightness in his chest evident in the thinness of the voice on his breath. “They don’t see it when they look at you because you aren’t defiant. But they’ll see it when they look at her. I can’t…this is all I can do to protect you. Trust you to protect yourselves out there.”

“You can’t stay, Chris.” Stiles grabs his arm this time, drawing a rueful look from the older man.

“I have to.” The older hunter says. “This is on me. I should have seen it before now.” He grabs the younger man’s hand and squeezes, before forcing his grip off his arm and looking back to Peter.

Peter lowers his head and presses up against the bars. Chris hesitates, because he’s a smart man, before he unlocks the cage, and then the harness, and Peter is on his feet before the other man can blink, pinning him to the bars with arms and a skin in dire lack of the warmth of fur. Stiles’ response is just as quick, but the gun to the back of the wolf-man’s head won’t deter him.

“A last act of nobility?” Peter hisses in the other man’s ear. “How pathetic.” His voice hurts, unused in so many years, and his limbs shake. He’s forgotten this too, this skin, these blunt fingers and precarious balance, and hates that Chris might know this face but Peter himself does not. He’s watched the other man change from fair youth to silvered warrior, and knows he himself must also have changed. “You think you can change them? That they _want_ to change?” Peter breaths into the other man’s neck, his fingers so close to a pulse point that he can feel its frantic beating. “Don’t fool yourself, you know better than that. They _want_ blood, and violence. You should give it to them, _Chris_.” He hisses out the other man’s name. He’s never said it before, never tasted the shape of it. It’s a sharp sound, almost starting with a growl. It’s fitting, Peter thinks. “You should give them to _me_. Let them feel my teeth and my fury, and you won’t have to change them at all. Just teach the next ones better.” Peter lightens his voice, to a crooning purr. “You are a good teacher.”

“You aren’t that much of a monster.” Chris grits out.

“I can be.” Peter promises.

“Do you want to be?” Stiles asks behind him, the gun still hovering behind Peter’s head. Peter turns his face slightly, red eyes gleaming in the brightening morning as the shadows grow before preparing to shrink back under the bright of day.

“Does it look, child, like I ever get what I want?” Peter growls, a weak and raspy sound in a human throat.

“That depends entirely on what you want _today_.” Stiles stresses, unwavering. Peter growls wordlessly, still pinning Chris to the bars of the cage with a bruising grip, though the other man can no doubt feel the tremble in his bones. “Right here, and right now.”

“I want them dead.” Peter says snappishly.

“Yeah?” Stiles nods, entirely unsurprised. “What about us?”

“Any particular reason I shouldn’t want you dead?” Peter retorts dryly, clearing his throat after for the hoarseness of it. He’s wanted words for so long, and so long they were denied him, but now they ache to speak.

“You could have killed me, and you didn’t.” Stiles says. “And you saved his life once. Seems a bit of a wasted effort if you take it now.”

“If you are trying to ply my humanity, child, you should be aware of how very little of it I possess.”

“And if you slaughter them, you’ll possess none at all.” Stiles says. “It’ll be the last thing they take from you.”

Peter snarls, whirls on the boy and slams him to the ground. Chris curses and chases after, and the weight of him in the mix sends them skidding and tumbling down the hill, which is very unkind to Peter’s very sensitive skin. He slams his face into Stiles’, cracking bone and spurting blood, and manages to slam Chris with a meaty fist when the other man does go for Peter’s throat. He scrambles out from between them and gains distance to face them. Stiles is on his knees, bleeding spectacularly, and Chris is a little white in the face on his feet, breathing tightly and leaning forward, winded from the blow to his diaphragm and the tussle down the slope.

“I wasn’t going to _kill_ him.” Peter spits nastily.

“Really?” Chris pants out. “The way our conversation just went?”

Peter grins, and likes the way it makes the other man look uneasy. The sun is rising, and Peter feels a shiver, and a breeze across his skin, and the keen absence of steel between him and the sky. He breathes deeply, no metal harness, spiked on the inside, to tighten his chest and hinder the expansion of his ribcage. His eyes fall closed, struggling against the sheer strange newness of it. He doesn’t remember this feeling. Even in his dreams, he has imagined his chains.

He sucks in air and it hurts, lungs stuttering. A whine rises in his throat and he forces it down, and when a hand touches his arm, he flinches violently, not having heard the boy step close, over the thundering on his own heartbeat.

He opens his eyes, chest heaving, breathing too quickly. He clamps his mouth shut and forces himself not to breathe at all, Stiles and Chris watching him warily…and with _pity_.

He bares his teeth at them, breath hissing in and out through them.

After a minute, he calms, and stops baring a snarl.

“My name is Peter.” He admits sullenly, suddenly aware of the morning, of the compound behind them that will start waking soon, and the vanishing chance that exists before him. “And I want to be free.”

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Other small stories may follow this one, because I kind of like the set up, but we'll see how interested people get and how cooperative my muses are.


End file.
